recommendation will be enough to assure me the position. Oh, Natalie, think of the opportunity! I who have photographed the dead, the dying, and the vainly self-Âaware, am to have the opportunity to photograph a new subject, Life itself, as it were, as it has never been seen before. And I will be able to quit my work at the tintype studio.
I will let you know when my assignment starts. Until then, dear sister, keep up your studies, and keep sending me the lovely little things you knit. And donât forget you promised me a violet ribbon from your hair that I may carry in my wallet, close to my heart.
Your affectionate brother,
Edouard
Â
Chapter 11
From the Journal of Augustine Dechelette
T HE CLOCK AT the train station, which runs on Parisian time, runs a full twenty-Âeight minutes faster than the clock in the old church steeple. My father could not stop looking at it. I stood, my handkerchief soaked with tears, in my best dress, going to Paris at last. My father had placed us some twenty feet down the station platform from the clock, but he kept walking over to it, his hands folded behind his back, his neck thrust forward and tensed, as though the clock might in fact be alive, and strike.
My best dress: rose-Âcolored, with an ivory overskirt. Ivory lace at the neck and sleeves that my mother had tatted for me. Wine-Âcolored ribbons in the shape of roses hitching up the overskirt, which hung in lazy arcs that swirled gently around my legs as I walked. The same ribbons all up the front of the bodice. Just the right puff at the shoulders of the sleeves. I had been so proud of this dress. My six petticoats frothed out at the bottom like new milk. I had thought of how I would feel standing in this dress on the train platform the day I left for Paris.
I had a brand-Ânew travel bag at my feet, calfâs leather with a pocket for my journal. The pocket was empty. I write now on a journal that has been given to me, out of kindness or routine I do not know.
My mother took my diaries, and I have not seen them since. Are they burned, with the dried poppy Louis gave me in the meadow that day, the postcard of the Eiffel Tower on which he wrote those sweet words? I hope it is all burned, after my mother defiled it with her eyes. I burn with shame at the thought of her reading what was meant only for my eyes; I have some consolation in knowing that she will never know which passages of my journal I read aloud to Louis; which fragments of poetry I wrote down that he read back to me, one hand in my hair as I sat at his feet in the room behind the store. These things remain for me unsullied. Unlike paper and ink, they can never be destroyed.
My father paced, eyeing the clock, which stood on a cement pedestal. My mother stood near me, making small awkward movements with her hands. She wanted to comfort me but did not dare; I had become a stranger to her. They would not tell me why we were going to Paris. I did not care. Everything that had meant anything to me had been taken away: I held my few pitiful jewels in my hands and protested that my treasure was still intact, but my jewels only sparkle in the dark; my mother had dragged them out into her harsh drawing-Âroom light, where they looked cheap, plaster and sequins only, with nothing precious about them, things a trollop would wear.
The train was due in at 12:10. By 11:50 my father was in a kind of hypnotic agitation. He could not keep his eyes from the station clock; my mother picked up my bag and suggested we go to him. There were other Âpeople on the platform, and I could not help but feel that they must see my shame surrounding me like a shadow. In my good dress I felt conspicuously unclean, although my mother had fussed endlessly to get every detail just right, ironing for an hour before putting the dress on me and examining it from every angle while I stood like a wooden doll.
I had had nothing to say for a week. I had had little to eat or drink.
I will let you know when my assignment starts. Until then, dear sister, keep up your studies, and keep sending me the lovely little things you knit. And donât forget you promised me a violet ribbon from your hair that I may carry in my wallet, close to my heart.
Your affectionate brother,
Edouard
Â
Chapter 11
From the Journal of Augustine Dechelette
T HE CLOCK AT the train station, which runs on Parisian time, runs a full twenty-Âeight minutes faster than the clock in the old church steeple. My father could not stop looking at it. I stood, my handkerchief soaked with tears, in my best dress, going to Paris at last. My father had placed us some twenty feet down the station platform from the clock, but he kept walking over to it, his hands folded behind his back, his neck thrust forward and tensed, as though the clock might in fact be alive, and strike.
My best dress: rose-Âcolored, with an ivory overskirt. Ivory lace at the neck and sleeves that my mother had tatted for me. Wine-Âcolored ribbons in the shape of roses hitching up the overskirt, which hung in lazy arcs that swirled gently around my legs as I walked. The same ribbons all up the front of the bodice. Just the right puff at the shoulders of the sleeves. I had been so proud of this dress. My six petticoats frothed out at the bottom like new milk. I had thought of how I would feel standing in this dress on the train platform the day I left for Paris.
I had a brand-Ânew travel bag at my feet, calfâs leather with a pocket for my journal. The pocket was empty. I write now on a journal that has been given to me, out of kindness or routine I do not know.
My mother took my diaries, and I have not seen them since. Are they burned, with the dried poppy Louis gave me in the meadow that day, the postcard of the Eiffel Tower on which he wrote those sweet words? I hope it is all burned, after my mother defiled it with her eyes. I burn with shame at the thought of her reading what was meant only for my eyes; I have some consolation in knowing that she will never know which passages of my journal I read aloud to Louis; which fragments of poetry I wrote down that he read back to me, one hand in my hair as I sat at his feet in the room behind the store. These things remain for me unsullied. Unlike paper and ink, they can never be destroyed.
My father paced, eyeing the clock, which stood on a cement pedestal. My mother stood near me, making small awkward movements with her hands. She wanted to comfort me but did not dare; I had become a stranger to her. They would not tell me why we were going to Paris. I did not care. Everything that had meant anything to me had been taken away: I held my few pitiful jewels in my hands and protested that my treasure was still intact, but my jewels only sparkle in the dark; my mother had dragged them out into her harsh drawing-Âroom light, where they looked cheap, plaster and sequins only, with nothing precious about them, things a trollop would wear.
The train was due in at 12:10. By 11:50 my father was in a kind of hypnotic agitation. He could not keep his eyes from the station clock; my mother picked up my bag and suggested we go to him. There were other Âpeople on the platform, and I could not help but feel that they must see my shame surrounding me like a shadow. In my good dress I felt conspicuously unclean, although my mother had fussed endlessly to get every detail just right, ironing for an hour before putting the dress on me and examining it from every angle while I stood like a wooden doll.
I had had nothing to say for a week. I had had little to eat or drink.
Similar Books
